


Bite the Dust

by hannahsoapy



Series: QLFC 2019 Submissions [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Disownment, Gen, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inspired by a Queen Song, Kinda depressing but also weirdly amusing, POV Sirius Black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 00:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20218894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahsoapy/pseuds/hannahsoapy
Summary: It was misting out, the middle of winter in London, and all he was wearing was what he'd gone down to dinner in: a royal purple leotard, and nothing else.





	Bite the Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Submission for Round 9 of the QLFC
> 
> Chaser 1 for the Chudley Cannons
> 
> Prompt: Another One Bites the Dust, "Are you happy now? Are you satisfied?"
> 
> Optional Prompts: (plot point) disowning someone or being disowned, (colour) royal purple, (object) leotard
> 
> Word Count: 1054
> 
> A/N: Don't try to write things during finals week, people. It's like writing drunk, but with more sleep-deprivation.

"They kicked me out," Sirius said, testing the words, as if saying them out loud would change anything. It didn't, of course. He was still standing alone on the sidewalk across the road from Grimmauld Place when the sound of his own voice faded from his ears.

Tensions had been rising between him and his parents ever since he'd been sorted into Gryffindor (and even before that, if he was honest with himself), but he had never expected to actually be disowned. He was the oldest son; the heir.

Well, not anymore. That was Reg, now.

He shivered. It was misting out, the middle of winter in London, and all he was wearing was what he'd gone down to dinner in: a royal purple leotard, and nothing else.

Ridiculous, yes, but harmless. Or so he'd thought. Apparently, it had been the final straw.

He'd come down the stairs confidently (he knew he looked good), with his wand jauntily sticking out of the left shoulder strap of the leotard and sauntered into the dining room without a care. His father, mother, and Reg had all turned varying shades of red – Reg clearly from embarrassment, and his parents both with anger.

Surprisingly, his father had spoken first.

"Go change," he'd said, gruffly.

Sirius had known his father wouldn't push the matter if he refused, although he'd sounded slightly more annoyed than usual at his son's antics. So he ignored him, turned a perfect pirouette (he'd practiced) and said, "I'm thinking of joining a muggle ballet."

He saw Reg's flinch as he finished his spin, and inwardly cheered. His whole goal, of course, had been to piss off his mother, and sure enough, she'd stood up with enough force that her chair had toppled backward, and she had not only directed her fiercest glare his way, but had also drawn her wand.

That was his first clue that things had progressed a little further than he'd planned them to.

"You ungrateful child!" she'd snarled, so angry that her entire body was quivering. "How dare you even suggest staining the family name!"

Sirius saw Reg slink down in his chair a little and felt a little bad for him, but his father kept on eating his supper as if nothing was happening. This misleading evidence of normalcy was the only reason Sirius found a vial's worth of Gryffindor bravery for what he did next.

He _rolled his eyes_ at his mother, and said, "I think you've done quite enough staining yourself."

The entire table had frozen like a Muggle picture for a second, Reg staring up at him with wide, incredulous eyes, his father with his fork suspended briefly between his mouth and his plate, and his mother, who looked eerily calm, despite the clear rage still simmering beneath.

Abruptly, she'd broken the moment and strode decisively out of the dining room. Sirius had looked at his father and Reg, but the former continued to eat, uninterested, and Reg looked just as bewildered as he felt. He had never seen his mother fall silent like that before; she always had some kind of vitriol to spew about everything. Sirius had scrambled to follow her, desperate to know what she was doing.

He'd made it to the hall just in time to see her turning into the genealogy room.

Then, for the first time, the sharp knife of fear had sliced into him.

He'd run into the room after her frantically, but it was far too late.

"You are no son of mine," she'd hissed, wand already raised.

Sirius had felt his throat close shut as his own mother shot flames at his face on the wall, cackling insanely.

"Are you happy now? Are you satisfied?" she screamed, punctuating her words with fire-blasts from her wand, burning his face off the family tree. Sirius could feel the blood draining from his own face as his visage disappeared from the wall, covered by scorch marks.

She'd stopped, finally, when not even his name could be made out below where his face had been. Panting, she looked at him again, her smile sharp and distorted with anger.

"Get out, boy," she'd snarled.

Sirius had been fixed in place, as if by a spell, but he'd jolted at her words.

"Get out!" she repeated, voice rising quickly to a level that could only be called glass-shattering. "You're no longer a Black, and I never want to see your traitorous face again!"

He'd stumbled back into the hallway, as if pushed, and seen Reg's pale, frightened face peeking around the corner into the hall, and felt sorry for him, for the first time in years. He'd opened his mouth to say something – apology, reassurance, _anything_ – but his mother's voice cut him off.

"Leave!" she'd shrieked. "Now!"

Reg had whipped out of sight, and Sirius had left, dazed, the world moving around him slowly and strangely.

They'd really done it, Sirius thought. He turned, looking back across the street one final time at the imposing façade of Number Twelve. He couldn't go back.

Fleetingly, he wondered if he would ever talk to Reg again. They were in different Houses, and different years, and by morning every Pureblood household would know of his disinheritance.

He wouldn't wish a life alone in that house on anyone, and he'd inflicted it on his little brother without a second thought for him. Reg would be fine, he futilely tried to assure himself. He'd always been the favorite son, anyway.

Bright headlights coming down the street broke his train of thought. He watched as they drove past with a strange feeling of detachment at the sound of their raucous laughter, only vaguely curious about why they were calling him a fairy.

Where to go now, he mused, watching the taillights disappear and feeling surprisingly unconcerned about his lack of a home. He glanced down at his outfit and gave a bark of hysterical laughter. He had no money, no real clothes. He'd been cut off. All he had to his name was a royal purple leotard and his wand.

Then he shook his head at himself. What was he thinking? All said and done, there was only one place_ to_ go.

.

.

Prongs would just laugh his arse off when he showed up at his doorstep in this bloody leotard.


End file.
